


Going, Going, Gone

by sonofabiscuit77



Series: Planet Waves series (Post Carry On fics) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Dead Dean Winchester, Despair, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Post-Season/Series 15, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: Sam doesn't carry on after Dean's death. He dies eight months later. This story covers Sam's last few months on earth before his heavenly reunion with Dean, from the POV of Jody Mills. Companion fic to Love You More.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Donna Hanscum & Jody Mills, Jody Mills & Sam Winchester, Jody Mills/Sam Winchester
Series: Planet Waves series (Post Carry On fics) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089722
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write more Jody-finds-out-about-wincest fic from her perspective, so this is that, except it's very dark and angsty and Dean is already dead.  
> Now finished.   
> Title taken from Bob Dylan's _Going, Going, Gone_ , the song that got me into Sam's mental state for this fic.

_I've just reached a place  
Where the willow don't bend  
There's not much more to be said  
It's the top of the end  
I'm going, I'm going, I'm gone_

Jody’s phone rang halfway through the movie. She glanced at the display, _Donna._

“Gotta take this one,” she said to Claire, who glared at her from the end of the couch. “How about you get more snacks." She handed Claire the empty popcorn bowl with a pointed look. 

“Ugh, fine,” Claire groaned. 

Jody watched her leave the room before she accepted the call. 

“Jodes, Jody, you there?” Donna was breathless down the other end, like she’d been running. 

Jody pushed to her feet, alarmed. “Yes I'm here. Are you okay? Donna, where are you?” 

“I’m at work. And yes, yes, I’m fine. When was the last time you heard from the Winchesters?” 

Jody blinked for a second, considering. “Um, not sure. It’s been a while.” 

“ _Right?_ It’s been months! Something’s wrong,” Donna babbled. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“That buddy of mine in Austin, he called me ‘bout two weeks ago, saying he’d had these bodies turn up with hearts missing, and that he knew that kinda weird was my jam. I couldn’t go help him then, we were two men down, and you know how recruiting is these days, my boys are already pulling double shifts and I couldn’t ask them to cover me too. So, I slipped him Sam and Dean’s numbers, and I told him to give them a call. I said for him to ask for Agent Bon Jovi, that’s the alias I always use for them, so they know it’s someone sent by me. He must’ve done that, ‘cause I heard nothing, not until today when it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard back. Well, Sam and Dean aren’t answering, so I gave my buddy a call and asked him, straight up, how he’d gotten on, had they helped? He’d said yeah, that one guy had shown in a pimping muscle car, and he’d taken care of the problem. Wait, one guy? I asked, not two guys, like, partners. No he said, _one_ guy, real tall, long hair, and kinda intense.” Donna broke off to snatch a breath. 

“Sam. On his own?” Jody said. 

“Yeah, Sam. On his own. _In the Impala_ ,” Donna said. “Jodes, how often does that happen?” 

“Never. I mean… even if they aren’t together then Sam driving that car. Without Dean…” she trailed off, her blood running cold. “Donna, did you call Sam?” 

“I tried, tried a whole buncha times. He isn’t answering. Something is wrong.” She exhaled heavily, the line crackling. 

Jody swallowed, dropping her head into her hand, pushing her fingers through her short hair. She could hear Claire in the kitchen, the pffty wheeze of popping popcorn on the stove. “Donna--” 

“You should call him,” Donna interrupted, using her sheriff voice. “He likes you more than me. You guys are close.” 

“Donna, I don’t know--” 

“No, definitely!” Donna interrupted again, and Jody could picture the look on her face, the finger she’d be holding up right now, like Jody was just another of her deputies. “Jodes, he listens to you. You gotta find out what’s going on. It’s not like them to be MIA for so long. Not now, not after everything.” She sighed again. “I gotta go, busy night. Let me know what Sam says.” 

Before Jody could say anything else she hung up. She stood for a moment staring down at her phone, and jumped when Claire clattered back from the kitchen, holding the foil-wrapped bowl. 

“Everything okay?” Claire asked, eying her suspiciously. 

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I got to make a call.” She headed off in the direction of her room, no way was she going to have this conversation in front of Claire. “You can watch without me!” she called over her shoulder. Claire was still staring after her, popcorn cradled to her chest. 

She dialled the first number for Sam that she had. She paced the room, and froze in a standstill when Sam responded on the third ring. 

“Jody?” 

“Yeah, Sam, uh, hi! Hi, Sam,” she said, laughing nervously and catching her reflection in her dresser mirror, quickly spinning away, embarrassed by the look on her own face. She hadn’t expected Sam to answer this quickly, or to answer at all. “How are you?” She winced internally at the fake brightness in her voice. 

“I’m fine, Jody, how are you? How are the girls?” he said. 

“Oh, good, good. Claire’s here. Sprained her wrist a week ago, so she’s laid up a little. Alex is good too, and Patience, doing well at college. You know. How about you?” she paused, then winced again because she’d already said that, way to be subtle. “And, Dean, how’s he? Can he come to the phone?” She paused, her lips pressed together, feeling like the worst kind of asshole. 

There was a pause before Sam spoke, flat and careful. “He’s… not here.” 

“Oh. Okay. Is he out?” 

“Not exactly,” said Sam, “listen, I’m wrapped up in a case right now, so if this is just a social call--” 

“Yeah, yeah, just a social call,” she babbled, “just wanting to check up on you boys, see that you’re both okay, keeping safe and everything, being a friend, you know how it is.” 

“A friend,” Sam repeated. “Right.” There was a crackle of static, and she froze, her hand poised against her face, listening hard, hearing Sam swallow, exhale, and say, “I gotta tell you something.” He trailed away, pausing for long enough that she wasn’t sure that he was still there. 

“Sam?” she said tentatively. 

“Yeah, I’m still here.” He took a breath and then said in a rush, “It’s Dean, Jody, he’s. He’s gone. Dead, dead, I mean. Dean’s dead.” He broke off, then chuckled, humourless and horrible. “That’s the first time I’ve said that.” 

“Oh Sam,” she breathed. She turned to look at herself in the mirror, surprised to see that there were tears in her eyes. She blinked and watched them roll down her cheeks. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. Was it a hunt?” 

“Vampires,” Sam said. 

“Oh, oh God. The life we lead…” Sam was still there, breathing quietly. “Listen, Sam, you know I’m here for you, right? If you want to come stay, you want a change of scene, me and the girls, we always love having you. And Donna too, I know how much she cares. You don’t got to be alone.” 

Sam said nothing, so she kept on talking, knuckling away the tears and keeping her voice steady. “And Dean, I’d like - if it’s not too much trouble, but I’d like to pay my respects, if we could do that. Is he buried somewhere, or are the ashes--” 

“I gave him a hunter’s funeral,” Sam interrupted. 

“Oh, oh, of course. And his ashes, did you put them with your mom’s? On her old stone?” 

“They’re with me,” Sam said flatly. “Listen, Jody, I really do gotta go, gotta stake-out this morgue. You know how it is.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, Sam. But, don’t be a stranger, honey, like I said, you don’t have to be alone.” 

“Bye, Jody.” 

She opened her mouth to say bye but he’d already hung up. 

**

Donna came by two weeks later, the first time she could get two days. She stepped out of her truck, holding aloft a dusty bottle of Scotch. 

“You and I gotta get our drinkin’ on,” she announced to Jody, dropping her duffle to the floor with a hefty thump. 

“Amen to that,” said Jody. 

They left the girls to watch the movie, and set up on the loungers outside. It was early March, so just this side of cold, definitely bearable enough with rugs and blankets from Donna’s trunk and of course the two bottles of wine they’d had over dinner.

“Lord, I am drunk,” Donna announced, letting her head drop back against the back of the lounger. 

“I hear you,” said Jody. She slipped the packet of cigarettes out of her coat pocket, and shook one out. She’d bought them a week ago and clean forgotten she’d had them until she’d put on her coat and felt them in the pocket - which had felt like finding a twenty dollar bill in dirty laundry. It’d been a long while since she’d smoked, but boy, she felt like one tonight. 

“Jody Mills,” Donna exhaled, eyebrows climbing into her hairline as Jody sparked her lighter. “I did not know that you were a smoker.” 

Jody took a long inhale and winced as the smoke hit her lungs. Her eyes watered, throat scratchy from the hit of it. She blinked and grinned, holding the cigarette away from Donna. “I’m not. Least, not for a long time. Don’t tell the girls.” 

“Cross my heart,” said Donna, making the sign on her chest. “You know, I used to smoke.” 

“You? Really?” 

“Oh yes. Back in my young days. I was quite the hellraiser,” Donna said. 

Jody regarded her for a moment, taking another pull on the cigarette. “You know, I can see that. And, sister, you are _not_ old enough to talk about your young days.”

“I’m forty-four, I think that qualifies,” said Donna. 

“Forty four, huh? That’s nothing. I’m coming up on the big 5-0. Next year.” 

“You know, Dean was only nine months younger than me,” Donna said. Jody glanced at her, she had a glass of wine cradled in her hand, taking a sip before she turned her head to meet Jody's eyes. She twisted her mouth into a half smile, and exhaled. “I always thought of him as younger, but we were practically the same age.” 

“The boys,” she said to herself, smiling over the words. 

“Huh?” 

“It’s what Bobby used to call them. And guess I always thought of them the same way. Except, you’re right, they’re not boys, never have been.” 

“You talk to Sam?” Donna asked.

They hadn’t talked about Sam or Dean since she’d arrived, leaving the subject well alone by a mutually silent understanding, not in front of the girls and all that. She had broken the news to Claire and Alex after the phone call with Sam, they’d both cried and wanted more details than she had to give them. She sent Sam a text two days ago, checking in with him, he responded eventually, saying he was in New Mexico chasing chupacabras. 

“He texted me. If you could call that talking,” she said at last. “You?” 

“Same. The one time I got him on the phone, he couldn’t get off quick enough. He doesn’t want to talk.” 

“Which is fair. It’s his choice. We should let him be, deal with it in his own way.” 

“Thing is, though, he’s not going to deal. How the hell do you get over that?” Donna said. 

She nodded slowly, and finished her cigarette, leaning over to put it out on the concrete tile. She’d thought the same thing years ago, after Sean, after Owen. She was still here and still standing and yet she’d never stopped missing them. She thought about them constantly. Sometimes she’d wake up after a dream of them, and then the memory of what happened would roll over her and she’d be momentarily frozen in her grief, physically unable to get out of her big, lonely bed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the unchecked tears roll down her cheeks. She always got past it eventually, pushing herself up and out of bed through sheer force of will and the practical reality that there were just too many people who needed her.

“Shit,” Donna said. Jody looked over, Donna was holding the empty wine bottle with a comically distressed look on her face. 

“We got more,” Jody said. “Drink cupboard inside,” she tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen door. 

“Never mind wine. It’s time for the real stuff,” said Donna decisively, unwrapping herself from the blankets, and getting to her feet. 

Jody watched her head inside with a fond smile. She tipped her head back to look up at the stars. Sam had once told her that stargazing was something he and Dean had done in between hunts, taking the car out to a lonely spot, away from civilization and light pollution, sitting on the hood, sharing a six pack and watching the sky. He’d learned most of the constellations by the time he was fifteen, and he’d point them out to Dean, who was too impatient to remember all the names and shapes. “He liked hearing the words though, and the myths behind them,” Sam had said, that fond look on his face that he always got when he was talking about his brother. New Mexico had great skies for star watching, though she doubted Sam would be doing that now. 

“Ta da!” announced Donna, brandishing the whiskey and two glasses in her other hand. “You want some.” 

“I do,” said Jody, and then because it was late, and they were drinking whiskey after two bottles of wine, “and i’m going to have another cigarette.” 

Donna made a mock “oh my” face, and laughed, sinking into her seat and leaning over to rest the tumblers on the ground. She uncorked the whiskey with a soft whomp and bent over again to slosh it generously Into the glasses.“Ouff. There you go,” she said, straightening and holding out a glass with a very generous measure, brandishing it like it was a gift for the baby Jesus. “So! What should we drink to?” 

“Only one thing we can drink to,” Jody answered, holding the glass up and admiring the way the light from the kitchen window played through the amber liquid. 

“Right,” said Donna. She made her expression solemn, and raised her glass, leaning over somewhat precariously to clink it against Jody's.“To Dean Winchester, a mighty fine piece of ass.” 

Jody snorted into her drink, just managing to avoid a spit take. 

Donna grinned smugly, wagging her finger playfully at Jody. “Honey, don’t tell me you didn’t think so. Y’all might’ve been “like family” -” she made mock quotes with her fingers, a drop or two of whiskey sloshing over the edge of her glass, “to them, but girl, _please_ , you got eyes. _And_ a working vagina.” 

Jody widened her eyes, giving her a fake scandalised look. “Sheriff Donna Hanscome, I do declare.” 

Donna shrugged serenely, and took another long sip of her drink. “Dean was responsible for two of my favourite sex dreams. He had a starring role in both of them. I often relive them when I'm needing, you know, a little extra incentive, to get over the line.” 

“Well, that’s a fitting eulogy,” Jody said. 

“And one he would appreciate I think.”

“No doubt.” 

“So you never, you and Dean?” Donna asked, waggling her eyebrows at Jody. 

“Me and Dean? Lord no!” she said, laughing. “It was never like that. Sure, that’s one good looking guy, but nah, not my type.” 

She finished her cigarette, and sighed as she crushed it out, dropping the butt into the empty wine glass and stretching her legs out in her chair. From inside, she could hear the dim sound of music, and she guessed that the movie had finished and the girls had switched to watching whatever music channel kids watched these days. God, she felt old. Fifty in just a few months. 

“You think…” Donna cut into the silence, then paused. Jody shot her a look. She looked thoughtful, the rim of her whiskey glass resting against her chin, her eyes a little wonky, glassy with the drink. She felt Jody looking ‘cause she glanced back at her, twisting her lip in a sheepish sort of expression. 

“What?” 

“Dean and Sam,” she said, “you think the two of them, you think that their relationship... It wasn’t--- was it?” She shot Jody a meaningful look. 

Jody felt her guts knot, a squirming in her stomach at a thought that she’d buried years back, a memory that she’d successfully repressed. She held her breath as Donna opened her mouth to talk again. 

“The way they were together, and how it was always the two of them, living together and working together. I don’t remember either of them ever having anyone else, not seriously. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m not saying that - that…'' she broke off and laughed shakily, “Lord, listen to me! I don’t know what I’m saying. Dean’s dead, the poor guy’s dead, and the world is definitely worse for it. He was a good man and he saved a lot of people. He saved my ass more than once. So, so, forget all of that, forget everything I just said, I am way too drunk right now.” She made a zipping gesture in front of her face and gave Jody a decisive nod. 

Jody smiled weakly at her, her stomach still in knots. She cleared her throat, searching for a change of subject. “Sam,” she said, “Sam was - _is_ \- well, if I had to choose, and if I had to pick, then my type, well it’s Sam. Every time.”

Donna glanced at her, and nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. He’s that resourceful, think-on-your feet kinda guy, I can see you liking that. Super smart of course. Not to mention the slammin’ bod.”

“Amen to that,” Jody echoed, raising her glass. 

“I’ll never forget the first time I met those two, that fat-sucker monster, though I didn’t know anything about _any_ of that at the time. I thought the eight pounds were down to two weeks of Keto and hot yoga. Sam was undercover at that health spa as the yoga instructor. Boy could he fill out those yoga shorts. I signed up for classes both days, and I _hate_ yoga.” She laughed, shaking her head. 

“A story for another day I think,” said Jody, “I’m not sure I can feel my feet anymore.” She wiggled her frozen toes and drained her glass. 

“Yes, bed time, definitely,” agreed Donna. 

Jody stacked their glasses and the empties in the sink, and looked in on the girls before she went upstairs. Claire was painting her toenails, Alex on her phone, some god awful noise coming from the TV. 

“I don’t care how long you stay up, but keep it down, okay?” she said to them. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Claire mouthed at her, Alex glancing up from her phone to wave goodnight. 

She went upstairs, cleaning her teeth and stumbling over her feet as she undressed. In the end she gave up the hunt for pyjamas and clambered into bed in her underwear. 

She couldn’t sleep, her guts still knotted, head pounding, and mouth like sand, as she twisted and turned, unable to block out the memory she hadn’t thought of for years, the one she’d deliberately pushed to the back of her mind. 

Six years ago when Alex was still in high school, Sam and Dean had stayed a couple of nights to help out on a case. She’d let them make up beds in the living room, leaving them to sort things out for themselves, only feeling a little guilty at making them sleep on the floor. 

She’d gone downstairs hours later to hunt for aspirin, and heard the sound of the TV as she passed through the hall. She stopped, her head muffled and muddled from sleep and alcohol, and peered through the gap in the living room door, resting ajar where the thick carpet prevented it from fully shutting. Sam and Dean were lying on the couch together, watching the TV, Sam in sweatpants, naked from the waist up, Dean in boxers and undershirt. Sam was pressed against the back of the couch, and Dean lay in front of him, spooned into him, their legs tangled, Dean’s back plastered to Sam’s chest, and his head lying on Sam’s bicep. Sam’s other arm was hooked around his brother, his chin on Dean’s shoulder, and hand splayed over Dean’s heart, one finger stroking Dean’s chest, backwards and forwards, gentle and tender and deeply intimate. 

She pivoted on the spot, and made her way blindly back upstairs, aspirin forgotten. _They’re brothers, they’re family, they're just being affectionate_ , she thought, _just innocent affection, like family members do._ She could remember lying on the couch with Owen, watching Finding Nemo, him nestled into her chest, her arm around him, caressing his hair and soft baby skin. _Just innocent brotherly affection,_ she told herself. 

She hadn’t slept that night, and in the morning, she was happy that Sam and Dean had left so soon after breakfast. She’d called them and backed them up on hunts and emailed Sam just as regularly, but it was a long while before they stayed over again. 

**

It was another two months before Jody saw Sam. Claire had dug up a case and was all guns blazing to get on the road. Jody managed to forestall her with a promise to assist with the boring research and another more important promise that she wouldn't leave before they figured out what exactly it was she was supposed to be hunting, which meant pulling in a few favors. 

“Looks like an arachnid,” Sam texted back after Jody emailed him all the details and links. “They’re tough to take down. Claire shouldn't go alone.” 

She managed to get him on the phone on her second attempt. “When you say she shouldn’t go alone…” she started. 

“We hunted one in Rhode Island about ten years ago,” Sam said, “it infected the local sheriff, a good guy, turned him and destroyed him. It took out a lot of people and almost got us. There aren’t many of them around in the US, but the ones that are still alive are tough and really nasty.” 

“Oh great. Well, you know Claire. She’s not giving this up, and I don’t have the leave to--” 

“I can help,” Sam cut in. “Hold on,” there was a rustling sound then he came back on the line again,” I’m about ten hours from you. If Claire can wait, then I’ll pick her up.” 

Claire was uncharacteristically agreeable when Jody told her she’d be playing copilot to Sam on the arachnid hunt. Maybe Jody was doing her a disservice, she’d definitely mellowed and grown up over the last few years, since everything with Kaia. 

They stepped outside to greet Sam when they heard the sound of the Impala’s engine. She felt her breath hitch when she watched the car pull in, and only one door crank open. She watched Sam emerge from the driver’s side, feeling the hot prick behind her eyes as she watched his lone figure circle around the front of the car and come greet them. 

He looked bad, thin and gaunt, bones standing out on his angular face, grey at his temples and in the grown-in beard. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the six months since she’d seen him - _them_ \- last. 

“Sam, hey,” she said, holding out her arms to him. He hesitated, an awful rictus of a smile on his face as he said her name, and stepped reluctantly into the embrace. 

He felt as thin as he looked, she could feel his ribs against her chest. She let him go with a fake sort of a laugh. “I’ve got a chicken roasting in the oven if you’re hungry.” She patted his arm. “Looks like you could do with a good meal.” 

“No, thanks, we really should get going. Like I said, arachnids are fierce. We delay any more and it could cost another innocent life,” he said, looking past her and at Claire who was already shouldering her duffle. 

“Oh, right, right,” she said. “Well.” Claire moved past her, and Jody tugged her back, hand on her arm to pull her into an embrace. Claire rolled her eyes, but went with it, hugging back half-heartedly, then practically bounding towards the Impala when Jody let her go. 

“You guys take care!” she called after them. She stepped back onto the porch, hugging herself, as she watched Claire toss her duffle into the backseat and slide into the passenger side of the car. Sam started the engine, and reversed the car out of the driveway. 

“It was nice seeing you,” she murmured as she watched the taillights fade into the rain. 

Claire kept her updated every 12 hours with bulletins on the hunt. _How’s Sam?_ She asked after another short missive. _Ok. Doesn’t talk much. Got to go. Coroner’s office._

After the arachnid hunt came a vengeful spirit in Oklahoma, and then a string of cursed objects in an auction house in Charleston. It was almost a month before Sam dropped Claire off. He only stayed long enough to use the bathroom, and smiled distantly when she pushed two cartons of leftovers on him for the journey back to… well she didn’t know where. She didn’t think he was still living in the bunker. 

“Come on, I know how much you boys - uh _you_ appreciate home cooking,” she persuaded him, kicking herself over the automatic _you boys_. 

“Thanks, Jody,” he said in the end, like he was humouring her. Then to Claire: “Call me if you see anything.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Claire said breezily. Then to Jody as the car was pulling away, “Damn, I am _dying_ for a hot bath.” 

Claire didn’t divulge too much of her time with Sam, too busy devouring the pot roast Jody had made, which was just as well, seeing as she’d made enough for three. 

“He didn’t talk much,” she said eventually. “Like, he was really quiet. Dean was the one who used to do most of the talking anyway, and without him… I dunno, Sam was _laser_ focussed on the hunt. He didn’t want to talk about Dean, and shut me down cold when I asked. I mean, I get it, sure. I wouldn’t want to talk about it in his place. So we only really talked about the hunt and hunting, though that was kinda good for me, I think, I mean, Sam is like the _encyclopedia_ of hunting. I did learn a lot.” 

“Good. Well, not good exactly,” Jody said, frowning. “But if you’re gonna do this crazy thing then I guess it’s good you’re learning from the best.” 

Claire made a face at her, but she was smiling, then her expression turned thoughtful. 

“What?” Jody prompted. 

“I think I should learn as much as I can now from him. Cause I definitely got the impression he’s not going to be around much longer.” 

Jody felt her blood run cold. “Claire, what do you mean?” 

Claire sighed, flicked her gaze up to meet Jody’s eyes, and then away again. She pressed her fork down into the table and shrugged, not looking at Jody. “I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on one thing, but he was… reckless in a way I don’t remember Sam being before. When I hunted with Dean and Sam before, Dean was always the one who used to want to go in guns blazing, and Sam was always like, no, think about it, let’s make a plan, let’s think through the consequences.” 

“And he wasn’t like that this time?” 

“No, no, he was. But… I don’t know, it was just an impression, okay? I mean he was super protective of me, like always,” she rolled her eyes again, “but…” she paused and licked her lips. “You know, Dean’s ashes are still in the trunk of the car.” 

“What?” 

Claire’s mouth twisted, and she blew out a long breath. “Yeah, yeah. So, I was reaching to get a machete from the back of the trunk--” she gestured, sticking out her hand, “--and my wrist kinda, like, caught on this urn that I’d not seen under all the other junk in there. I sorta knocked it to one side - nothing spilled thank God! But it made a big noise, and Sam looked over, and he, God, he was seriously freaking out. It was super awkward.” She made a face, and picked up her glass to take a sip. “He apologised after of course, saying he was really sorry, blah blah. But that’s really freaking weird, right? I mean, who drives around with their dead brother’s ashes in the trunk of their car?” 

“Evidently, Sam does,” Jody said. 

“Right,” Claire said. She tapped her nail against her wine glass. “What’s for dessert?”


	2. Chapter 2

The end came three months after that. She and Claire worked a case backing up Donna on a rogue group of werewolves. Garth had gotten involved too, and Alex was home from med school and bored, and so she tagged along. After they’d put the case to bed, the five of them went for a celebratory steak. 

A few bottles of wine later, they were trading stories. Garth telling them about the first case he’d worked with Dean. Sam had been temporarily out of the picture, having gotten himself magically roofied and forced into a fake marriage by a crazy super-fan of the Supernatural books. 

“I’ve read some of those books,” Alex said. She looked at Jody and smiled evilly. “I liked the one with you in it.” 

Jody groaned, and dropped her head into her hands. “Do not remind me.” 

“They’re really badly written,” added Alex. “And they’re, very, um, how shall I put this? Very gay romance genre.” 

Claire snorted at her. “Weirdo.” 

Alex shrugged. “I’m just saying what’s there in the text. It’s no surprise that people get obsessed with the Sam and Dean in the books. They’re written in this intense purple-prose, and they're constantly obsessing over each other. Anyway, the guy who wrote them turned out to be God. So, technically those books are the word of God.” 

“A petty, twisted, little God who tried to destroy the world,” Jody said. 

“Till Sam and Dean stopped him,” added Donna. 

“Right,” Garth said, finger-gunning at Donna. He lifted his beer bottle, looking around at them. “Bout time we gave them their due. After all, that’s why we’re all sitting here today. We all owe our lives to the Winchesters.” 

“Hear, hear,” said Donna. 

“Sam and Dean,” said Jody, lifting her glass. 

She finished the toast and put down her glass, noticing her phone ringing. It was Sam. “Oh, speak of the devil,” she said. 

She took the call out the back of the steakhouse, Sam talking fast, the sound of the road in the background, so evidently he was driving somewhere. He'd found a new case. Ghost possession, and it was in South Eastern South Dakota. 

“It’s in your backyard, so, I thought you’d like to know,” Sam finished. “I can take care of it myself. But I don’t think Claire would ever forgive me if I didn’t let you know.” 

>>

They met the following day at the motel. Sam had already checked in, his room set up hunter style with newspaper clippings and post-it notes on the walls when he let them inside. 

Aside from the mess on the walls, the room was pristine, hospital corners on Sam’s bed, and knives laid out neatly on the unused queen, ready for sharpening and cleaning. She watched him tuck the revolver into the back of his jeans as he nodded to them. He looked worse than when she’d last seen him, thin and gaunt and pale with a barely healing cut on his forehead and wrapped fingers on his left hand. 

Sam had done most of the legwork already. What was left was a whole lot of research, pinning down the culprit and what had happened to his remains. Claire groaned, and immediately offered to do a food run. 

“I was meaning to ask,” she said after Claire had left. 

“Yeah?” Sam turned to look at her. He was refilling his styrofoam cup with the terrible motel-room coffee, sliding a silver flask from his inner pocket, and pouring a healthy glug into the coffee - something he wasn’t even bothering to hide from her. 

“Yeah, what happened to Miracle?” 

The last time she saw Dean and Sam together, they were on a road trip, not a hunt, an honest to God roadtrip, Las Vegas for Dean, and then Yellowstone for Sam. They’d gone camping in the park, though the trip was cut short when Miracle was bitten by something, his paw swelling up slightly. Dean had freaked out and refused to move or do anything until Miracle got medical assistance, and so Sam had called in a park ranger. 

“They laughed in our faces,” Sam told her. 

Dean looked scandalised. “It wasn’t funny, Sam! His paw was the size of a baseball,” he turned to Jody, appealing, “a baseball, Jody! He could’ve been bitten by a rattler.” 

Sam huffed a breath, exchanging a look with Jody. “It was maybe the size of a golf ball. Don’t exaggerate, Dean.” 

Dean ignored him, bending over to scoop the dog, lying devoted and doe-eyed at Dean’s feet, into his arms. “Don’t listen to him, boy, just cause Uncle Sammy’s got a cold dead stone for a heart, we know the truth. We know what you went through.” 

Dean had loved that dog something crazy. 

“Oh,” said Sam. He looked embarrassed for a moment, lifting his hand to scratch the back of his head in a gesture that reminded her wrenchingly of Dean. “I gave him to a shelter. A good one. They rehomed him, a nice family, with kids and a big yard. They sent me an email with photos of him, he looks happy.” 

“Oh, well, that’s good.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Sam said, nodding earnestly, like he was trying to believe it himself. “I can’t look after him like he deserves. And this life - “ he threw his hand out to encompass the room around him - “it’s no place for a pet.” 

Hours later they landed on their likely villain: an old priest from one of the first Christian settlements to come out here, Father John McNally, likely allied to one of the more active militia groups that had devoted itself to “defending” the recently ceded area against the native Sioux. It was no coincidence that the three victims of the ghost-possession could trace their ancestry back to the biggest and most dominant tribe from that time. 

“Problem is, finding where he’s buried. Or if not buried, then whether he was cremated. Record keeping wasn’t great back then,” Sam groaned. 

It was late. After the food, Claire had headed back to their room, taking her Chromebook and promising to look into a few leads. Jody wasn’t holding out for her though, Claire was even less into the research side of hunting than Dean had been. She’d be watching Netflix and drinking wine by now. After further fruitless hours of searching through the online archives of the local historical society, she gave up. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head to straighten her spine. Sam looked up from his pages, and watched her. 

“You need a break?” he asked. 

“Oh yes,” she said, getting to her feet to crack her back. “I can’t sit for that long. Not anymore.” 

Sam’s lips quirked, and he got to his feet. “Yeah. Well, I’m okay with that. Gotta do another supply run anyway.” 

She nodded to him, watched him pull on his jacket, and check his pocket for the keys. “You’re okay here?” he asked, hesitating in the doorway. 

She jerked her head at the knife collection on the bed, the Taurus on the table. “Think I got enough here to defend myself.” 

Sam nodded, and left. She heard the sound of the Impala’s engine a few moments later. 

She paced the room, shaking out her legs, and rolling her shoulders. Sam’s father’s journal was sitting on the nightstand, next to his travel alarm clock and an empty money clip. She rested her hand on the journal’s worn leather cover and tapped it with one finger. Sam and Dean had worked ghost possession cases before, and no doubt their dad had. Sam knew the contents of this journal back to front, but there was no harm in a second pair of eyes. It had to be more interesting than the secretary of the local historical society’s articles about railroad lines and sewage systems. 

She picked up the journal, and sank down onto Sam’s bed. She flicked open the cover, and a sheaf of photographs slipped out, and fell to the floor. She sighed, and bent to pick them up, leafing through them as she put them back in order, smiling as she took in each image. Young bowl haircut Dean with baby Sam on his lap; a younger Sam and Dean from before she’d met them, sharing a joke, smiling and happy and untroubled for one tiny moment; Sam and Dean drinking beers at Bobby’s dining table, grinning at the person taking the photo. She hesitated over the next one, Dean on his own, seated at a diner booth, wearing a short-sleeved grey shirt that clung to him like a second skin, his head tilted back, green eyes and freckles and golden stubble, staring directly into the camera like he was willing it to take him on. She’d never given it much thought when he was alive but Dean really had been unusually good looking, the kind of attractive that was more suited to prime time tv than hunting. She put it to the bottom of the pack, and then paused over the next one. It was Dean again, sprawled shirtless across a motel room bed, his torso gleaming like he’d been dipped in baby-oil, hair mussed and mouth pink, staring into the camera with bedroom eyes and a knowing curl to his lips, looking like, well, looking like he was one move away from jumping the person taking the photo and wrestling them onto the bed with him. Well, that was. Yeah. 

Her stomach coiled as she turned the last photo over. She flinched and dropped it like she’d been stung. Her heart hammered as she bent to pick it up, her fingers grazing the carpet and short nails not helping as she struggled to grasp the dogeared edges. Eventually she grabbed it, turned it over, and stared. 

If the previous photo had looked like a PG-13 rated Tindr profile, then this one was definitely R rated. Dean, completely naked, lying on the same anonymous motel-room bed and jacking himself, the head of his cock just visible over the wrap of his fingers, his face slack with pleasure. And wrapped around Dean's throat… another man's hand, the tan muscular forearm coming into frame from the bottom of the picture, an arm that had to belong to the person holding the camera, an arm that looked familiar to her, Sam's arm. 

With shaking hands she shoved the photos back into the journal. She dropped it on the nightstand like it was hot metal, and pushed to her feet. She paced a couple of steps, her guts churning. 

Well, this was. Yeah, it was. She’d known was the thing, she’d _known_. There was no debate now. That time at her house, the two of them on the couch. _Innocent brotherly affection_ , how blind had she been? How long had it been going on? That photo had been taken at least ten years ago. So they’d been doing _that_ for a long time. Before she’d known them. When they were teenagers? No, no way was she going _there_. She couldn't think about that. 

She paused in her pacing, and pushed her shaking hands into her short hair. She froze when she heard the sound of the Impala’s engine. She spun around and stared at the journal. Had she put everything back where she’d found it? Would Sam notice that she’d touched his porno pics of his brother? Oh God. How was she going to face him now? 

She didn’t get much chance to think about it further as the key turned in the lock, and Sam came into the room, holding a six pack and a grocery bag. He hefted it, and smiled faintly. “Supply run successful.” He jerked his head toward the laptop, the pile of papers on the bed. “Did you find anything?” 

She stared blankly at him, she’d definitely found something. Just - not what Sam was looking for. “Uh, no, no luck,” she said. 

He nodded absently, shrugging off his jacket and crossing the room to put the beers into the mini fridge. 

She stared at the curve of his back, the shirt loose on his shoulders now due to the weight loss. Sam used to look like he bulged out of his shirts, all that thick muscle and brawn, _tan muscular earm wrapped around his naked brother’s throat_. Nothing like a little erotic asphyxiation between brothers… She swallowed down the bile at the back of her throat. Jesus Christ. 

She glanced at the grocery bag lying on the floor. There was more than one liquor bottle in that bag, and she could see it in his bloodshot eyes and smell it on him when he’d come in, not bothering to hide any of it from her. The whiskey and grief was soaked into every pore. After all, he was grieving not just his brother, but his…God, after what she now knew. 

“Want one?” Sam asked peering over his shoulder at her. 

She blinked at him. “Umm… What?” 

Sam waved a beer bottle at her. “Want a beer, Jody?” 

“Oh, yes, yes, thanks, Sam,” she garbled at last. Way to play it cool there, Jody. She needed to pull herself together. She needed to put all of this out of her head and focus. They were here for a hunt. Three people had died and more would follow if they didn’t figure this out. She owed it to them to get her shit together. 

He pushed to his feet, and uncapped two beers, holding one out to her. She took it from him with a nod of thanks, and sank into her chair. 

She took a swig of her beer, and then another. Sam wasn’t saying anything, drinking silently and steadily. She thought about heading to her room and doing some more research there. Being in the same room as Sam now felt stifling, her body on edge and hand still shaking a little when she raised the bottle to her lips. Only thing was she’d accepted this beer, and she’d been raised right, which meant she had to do the polite thing and finish it. 

“We should check out the church again tomorrow,” he said, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah,” the word came out hoarse, and she cleared her throat, saying more decisively, “yeah, good idea.” 

Sam nodded, then drained the rest of his beer. She watched in silence as he got up and fetched himself another. “You okay still?” he said, nodding at her barely drunk beer. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm good.” 

He nodded, and took a seat once more, uncapping the bottle and taking a long pull. He put the bottle back onto the table and eyed her thoughtfully. 

“I always forget how we met you,” he said. 

“Hmm?” 

“The first time we met you. What happened to your family.” 

Her gut clenched, the ache in her chest there again. Not gone, not ever gone, but always there underneath, any minute threatening to swell and wash over her. 

“How do you do it?” he asked, and he sounded genuinely amazed. “You lost _everything_ , Jody, and yet still, you… what you do, how you live.” He broke off and then said quietly, “I don’t know how you bear it.” 

She forced herself to lift her eyes to his. He was looking at her like she had the answers to everything. She swallowed, picking at the label on the beer bottle with her thumb. “You really want to know?” 

“Yes.” 

She swallowed before she spoke. “You take each day, one by one, hour by hour. You promise yourself one more day, just one more, and then… you find something to distract yourself during that day, something to take your mind off even if it’s just for five minutes, five seconds. I remember, I got to be a real good shot in the weeks after, after Owen.” There, she’d said his name, it was out there, and it was okay. “I’d go to the range and I’d spend all evening there. I’d practice and practice and practice some more, then I’d look at my watch, and three hours had gone. Three hours that I’d gotten through, and I hadn’t noticed.” She took a pull on her beer, replacing it carefully back onto the table before she added, “You know the other thing I figured out? Hunting. It’s the best - and worst - kind of distraction there is. It’ll get you killed, but it sure does keep you focussed. Though, I guess you know that already, Sam.” 

She trailed off, and closed her mouth, her throat tight. She heard the AC unit click over, the whirring sound the only noise in the quiet room. 

“You keep fighting,” Sam whispered. 

She flicked her gaze to him. He was staring at a point over her shoulder, his eyes bloodshot, his face tight and caved in, his voice a broken whisper. “It’s what he said to me, it’s what he wanted me to do.” She watched him swallow, the agony flicker across his face like he’d been kicked in the gut. “I don’t know if I can do it.” He rested his eyes on her finally, dark, feverish, imploring. “I don’t want to do it.” 

Her chest was so tight she wasn’t sure she could speak. Silently she got to her feet, and circled the table to stand over him, her hand hovering over his back. 

Dean was every role to him, family, brother, best friend, work partner, life partner, _lover_. With everything she’d already known about them, the sacrifices they’d made for each other, and now, with what she now knew. When you commit that kind of sin together, when you throw away everything for each other over and over, how do you go on alone? You shouldn’t put that much love on one person, make them your entire life and your whole reason for being, ‘cause what do you do when they leave you? 

You wait until either a monster or alcohol poisoning gets you. 

She dropped her hand to his shoulder, soft and gentle as she squeezed, trying to give him comfort. It didn’t matter right now what she knew. Here was someone in so much pain, she couldn’t stand by and judge his suffering. 

Sam tilted his head back and looked at her. “I can’t bear it,” he gritted out. He grasped for her, fingers finding and digging into her hip. “I can’t do it, Jody, I can’t do it.” 

“Yes you can, Sam. Fuck, yes you can,” she hissed. “Look at what you’ve done! You stood up to Lucifer, you killed the devil! You saved the world, Sam, over and over again. You defeated _God._ ” 

Sam scoffed, shaking his head, gaze burning into her. “No, no. _Dean_ killed Lucifer, he did it to save me! Locking him the cage, that first time, I did that ‘cause of Dean, _for_ Dean, to keep him safe, to make amends. And after, Chuck, everything, we defeated Chuck _together_. Me and him, that’s what he said. Me and him, always. _He wasn’t supposed to leave me._ ” He broke off, chuckling darkly, horribly, “And now... Well now, I just don’t care. I kill evil things, I save people ‘cause I’m a Winchester and that’s what we do, but I don’t care.” As he said the last words he lurched to his feet, towering over her. His hand was still gripping her hip, hard enough to leave bruises. He cupped the back of her neck, leaning over and into her. A bolt of lust shot through her, a clenching in her belly and flood of warmth to her skin. He licked his lips, staring down into her face. “Tell me if you don’t want it,” he said, and then he kissed her. 

It was bruising, hard, her gasp swallowed by his mouth. His hand slid to her lower back, fingers digging into her ass, gripping hard. She froze for a second, overwhelmed by the onslaught, then she kissed him back, suddenly frantic in her desire, rocking her hips forward and into him. He pushed her head back, demanding, bristly scrape of his beard against her throat, and Jesus, that was hot, his lips on her throat, licking and sucking, and biting. She bucked into him, her skin on fire, clutching at him. He groaned into her skin, an indistinguishable syllable, sending reverberations through her body, making her stomach plummet. He slid both hands under her ass, and lifted her, spinning her around like she was nothing and dropping her down onto the table. It rocked, and both their beers crashed to the floor, papers flying with them. God, he was strong, so fucking solid, so big. 

He loomed over her, kissing her again, huge hand on her face, just as bruising and bristly as the first time. She grasped for him, fisting his shirt, and then sliding down, curious and hungry, wanting to touch all of him. She could feel his ribs through his shirt, thinner and sparer now compared to how he must have been before, but his thighs were still pure hard muscle, and God… was that, was that his cock? She cupped him through his jeans, wanting to feel all of it. It had been so damn long since… 

He flinched, and jerked back, blinking down at her. “Jody?” he said. 

“Sam,” she said, a cold dread stealing into her, the heat leaching from her skin at the look on his face. She felt suddenly really fucking ridiculous; a woman of her age, someone that Sam of course didn’t see that way, and had never seen that way. He was grieving, drowning himself in alcohol, she’d seen it herself. He was not thinking straight, not capable of making real decisions right now. She knew what grief did to you. She should never have reciprocated. What was she thinking?

“I, uh… shit,” she pressed her lips together, feeling her cheeks flood red with embarrassment. Thank God they were both still fully dressed. “Uh, sorry, sorry about that,” she babbled. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, her lips still felt bruised. 

He looked agonised. “No, no, it was me, my fault. I’m so sorry, Jody, I shouldn't have done that.” He paused, looking at her, more precisely looking at her neck, at the--- 

Shit. The bright purple hickey on her neck. Good luck hiding that from Claire. 

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Sam said again, stumbling over the words, “I, um, I have a thing, for, um,” he tapped the side of his neck, blushing furiously. “I’m so sorry.” 

She suddenly had a flashback of Dean, of all the layers he used to wear, jackets and shirts and tees and always with a collar… 

Fuck. This was awkward. 

“No harm done,” she said trying to make her tone brisk, trying to smile reassuringly. He looked even more wrecked than he’d looked before. Great job there, Jody. “Lucky I packed a turtleneck!” 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Sam said miserably. “It was disrespectful, Jody. You’re a good friend and I took advantage.” 

“No you didn’t,” she said firmly, feeling some of her equanimity come back. “Sam, no. I’m not a damsel in distress. I make my own damn decisions, not matter how dumb they are. Believe me, I was _not_ trying to fight you off. You didn’t take advantage of me.” 

“Even so, I’m sorry,” Sam said again. 

“Apology accepted. Listen, we should get some rest. Got to hunt this nasty-ass ghost tomorrow.” 

“Right,” Sam said weakly. 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Sleep well, Sam.” 

She hurried out of the room before he could say anything else. 

She paced the parking lot, smoking a cigarette, and thinking about calling Donna. God, no, she couldn’t tell Donna. It was so freaking embarrassing. She paused in the middle of the parking lot and hugged herself. She’d left her jacket in Sam’s room, but no way was she going back in there to get it. She finished her cigarette, pushed her hands through her hair and set her shoulders. She really should get some sleep. 

“Where were you?” Claire asked suspiciously as Jody let herself into their room. 

“Resarching, where you left me,” she said in what she hoped was a totally breezy, normal tone of voice. Evidently it wasn’t because Claire narrowed her eyes and then flung herself off the bed, gasping, “Oh my God! You had sex with Sam!” 

“Wait! What? I did not,” she stammered. 

“You have a hickey. Which by the way… ew gross,” Claire said, leaning into her and peering at her neck. She wrinkled her nose. “It’s pretty noticeable.” She looked at Jody’s face again and widened her eyes. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you had sex with Sam!” 

“I didn’t have sex with Sam,” she repeated, glaring at Claire. 

Claire stepped back and narrowed her eyes again, obviously not believing her. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Jody said, feeling Claire’s eyes bore into her as she stepped into the bathroom. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was gone the following day when they knocked on his motel room door. When he finally called, while Jody and Claire were having lunch in a local diner, he’d already cracked the case. 

“He’s not buried, definitely connected to an object. Which, I’m pretty sure is in the local Catholic church,” he said. “In fact, the original mission church was destroyed, and they built the more recent church about 60 years later on the same spot. It’s still open, but there’s some serious renovation work going on. It was hit by lightning three years ago.” 

“Okay. Are you headed over there now?” Jody asked. 

“Just coming from there,” he answered. “We should break in tonight, burn whatever it is that’s holding the spirit here.” 

“Break into a church,” she said, raising her eyebrows at Claire, who smirked at her. “That sounds nice and legal and respectable.” 

“Aren’t churches supposed to be open all the time?” said Claire. 

Jody waved her silent, and concentrated on what Sam was saying. “Need to do some more digging into what the object could be. I’ll meet you later, after dark.” 

It was just starting to rain as they packed the car with supplies. Sam pulled up in the Impala, and got out. “Any luck?” she asked. 

He shrugged. “Nearest I can guess is some old journals. I went back to the church, spoke to someone else. They boasted about having journals and books that date back to the original mission.” 

The church was a little way out of town in an isolated spot with a huge empty parking lot at the back. The security was weak according to Sam, no alarms and no cameras, which made things a hell of a lot easier. Sam slid his lockpicks from his inner pocket and got to work. Ten seconds later they were inside. 

Sam wasn’t wrong about half of the place being a building site. It looked pretty damaged and only half-restored, scaffolding and builders’ materials everywhere. It was colder inside than out, dark tall shadows from the piles of masonry and timber, and the eerie reflection of the moon through the large still damaged windows. 

“It feels weird in here,” Claire said, backing into a pillar, her shotgun held at shoulder height. 

Jody was about to respond when she felt it too, the prickle of ice, a draught of wind whipping through them, a crackle of static. 

Claire let off a shot that crashed through the eerie silence, and suddenly Jody was flying, spinning through the air and landing on her back, momentarily winded. She scrambled for her shotgun, lifted her head, seeing the flickering image of the ghost shiver forward. She cocked her gun, and aimed. It vanished, and she scrambled to her knees. 

“Claire! You okay?” 

“Yeah!” Claire called back, “I’m gonna look for those books! Keep it distracted!” 

She staggered to her feet, shotgun cocked, the hairs on her neck raised and pulse thundering in her ears. She heard a crackle, and shot again, the salt round slamming into a pile of mason blocks and sending them teetering. Shit, she was trigger happy tonight, she needed to get her shit together. She reloaded her shotgun with trembling fingers, and looked around for Sam. He was standing about fifteen feet away, shotgun cocked, circling, looking. 

The ghost rippled, appeared, Sam let off a round, and it vanished once more. The wind whipped through the church again, something creaked, a rushing noise in her ears as she jerked her head back. 

“ _Sam!_ ” she screamed. 

She saw him tilt his head back, taking in the cracks snaking across the newly reconstructed ceiling, dust raining down on them like gritty suffocating snow. She backed away, shotgun raised, her eyes locked on Sam, pleading, “ _Sam! Sam! C'mon! It's gonna come down! Move_!” 

Sam ignored her, standing still and silent, gazing up at the fracturing ceiling like it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He slowly lowered his head, and looked right at her. His lips moved, shaping words, but she couldn’t hear them through the cracking, splintering wood and stone. Then he dropped his shotgun, and closed his eyes. 

She threw herself to the ground, bracing her head with both arms as the roof fell behind her, reveberating through her like an exploding bomb. She panted into her knees, clutching herself, shaking, her ears ringing. 

The church was once again deathly silent. Tentatively, she raised her head, blinking and coughing at the fog of dust. The spirit flickered in front of her, and then she was on her back, winded, gulping for air, the spirit’s groping fingers digging into her throat, leaching her breath. She was gasping, heaving, clawing with weak fingers for her shotgun, kicking her feet fruitlessly in the dust. She could see the pure malevolent glee on its face as it choked the life from her.

“ _Jody!”_

A shot slammed through the air, and she clutched her poor damaged throat as she sucked in mouthfuls of beautiful, beautiful oxygen, gagging on the dust and particles. She rolled to her side, and vomited bile and acidic saliva onto the stone floor, eyes watering as the acid stung her tortured throat. She wondered where the hell Claire was, and what she was doing that was so damn important that she couldn’t come help. 

Then she remembered the ghost. Shaking, she pushed her palms to the floor, and forced herself up, gripping her shotgun with both hands. 

“Jody! You okay? Keep it busy!” Claire shouted. 

She jerked her head in the direction of Claire’s voice. She was squirting accelerant on a pile of old books, a determined look on her face when their gazes met. 

A crackle of static rippled through the air, and Jody snapped her head around, taking aim and shooting before the spirit could fully manifest again. 

She saw the flare of Claire’s lighter from the corner of her eye, and then a woosh of flame, turning her head in time to see Claire stagger back as the dry old pages caught fire. 

_This better work_ … Jody barely had time to finish the thought when a diabolical scream tore through the church. She stumbled into Claire, who leaned back into her, clutching her arm and panting. They stared at the burning ghost, howling and shrieking as it shimmered and folded into faint glowing embers and then finally, nothing. 

“What was that noise? What happened to the… roof?” Claire trailed off on the last word, taking in the scene before them, the pile of rubble and dust that had once been the half-constructed roof. 

“Oh my God,” Claire breathed, “Was Sam, was he…” 

“He was over there,” Jody said, the adrenalin sparking as she pulled away from Claire, and kicked her way through lumps of concrete, stone and fragments of wood beams. 

“Jody!” Claire grabbed her sleeve, and Jody turned to look where Claire was pointing. A boot, Sam’s boot. 

Claire’s face was white, her hair sticking to her face with sweat, dirt and dust as they worked to free Sam. They called his name, increasingly weak with dust and despair, her own voice already scratchy and worn, aching terribly from the evil sonofabitch of a ghost. The thoughts spun through her head as they worked; he couldn’t still be alive under there, if he were alive then he would answer, he might be unconscious, he might not be able to answer, he could be alive and unconscious. People were known to survive for days after earthquakes. And this was Sam Winchester, Sam had survived much worse than a collapsed roof. 

She could see one leg now, his right side, maybe that was one arm, his right torso, the khaki green of his jacket. It had been minutes, minutes crushed under all of that. She sank to her knees, then onto her stomach, her face in the dust, as she craned her neck and peered under a heavy beam. She could see the orange plaid of his shirt, his white forehead and a stark red bloody cut, his dark bearded cheek. 

“Is he breathing?” Claire hissed. 

“I don’t know.” 

She carefully slid her hand under a thick beam, cuff catching and ripping on a splinter. She swore. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Shh,” she said, “gonna try see if he has a pulse.” 

Claire shut up, and she took a breath and crawled her fingers over Sam’s shoulder, and there, to his neck, bristles against the pads of her fingers as she felt for his carotid. She held her breath, holding her forefinger and middle finger against the thick artery. Nothing. Her stomach clenched, and she slid her hand up and over his chin, to his mouth, feeling for the warm, damp puff of breath. Nothing. She felt the breath leave her chest, her stomach sinking as she gently slid her hand up to pat his cheek, to stroke his cheekbone. She felt the tears well in her eyes. 

“Jody?” Claire whispered. 

She swallowed hard and carefully pulled her hand back. She climbed heavily back to her knees and bowed her head, feeling the hot tears run down her dusty face. When she eventually looked up to meet Claire’s gaze, she could see the tears on Claire’s face. She watched Claire sink down to a piece of broken pillar and drop her head into her hands.

“We got to free him, we can’t leave him,” she said. 

Claire nodded, and with what looked like an enormous effort, raised her head again. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna get some tools from the trunk.” 

It took them another twenty minutes to uncover Sam’s body enough to move him. He was broken and bloody, the back of his skull pulpy, the cut on his forehead a deep gash, blood matted in his hair. Several ribs were broken, his lung punctured by a thick nail, his clothes were saturated in blood. Despite her training, she couldn’t guess the exact cause of death, head injury, blood loss, punctured lung, suffocation… he could’ve died of any of them. Only thing she could say was that it would’ve been quick. 

They stole vestments from the sacristy to wrap him. The blood was everywhere, pools of it on the floor when they finally managed to roll him, their hands sticky and claggy with it, caking their clothes and getting - God - even into her own short hair. She wretched, and wretched again at the smell, at the mess that was the back of Sam’s head, her throat felt like broken glass, but thank God there was nothing left in her stomach. They had to wrap him in multiple layers to soak it up, to keep his broken body together, leaving him as tight and bound as a mummy. And God, he was heavy, really fucking heavy. They moved him slowly, lumbering and pausing for a rest every few yards, her back screaming in agony at the effort. 

Eventually, they made it outside. She checked her watch. 5.05am. The sun was beginning to rise and it was a clear day, going to be hot after the rain the night before, the air smelling of that fresh, ozone scent. They let down the ramp to her truck bed, and slowly, staggering, they rolled him up and into it, strapping him down and covering him with enough tarpaulins so he didn’t look like a corpse. 

“What are we going to do about?” Claire jerked her head at the Impala, sitting there black and sleek, the rising sun reflecting off her chrome. 

“Shit! The keys’ll be in his pocket.” She smacked her palm against the side of the truck, “Fuck! Fuck this shitty day!” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Claire said, putting her hand into her pocket and pulling out a set of keys. “I picked his pockets when we were binding him.” 

“Oh,” she frowned. “That was very… criminal of you. Not sure I approve.” 

Claire grinned wearily at her, her face streaked with dirt and a cut on her cheek where a beam had caught her during their battle through the rubble. She suddenly felt a burst of affection for her. Not many twenty-three year olds could’ve gone through what she did tonight and still be able to smile. Guess there was something to be said for trauma-built resilience. 

“I got this too,” Claire said, pulling a wallet out of her other pocket. “Here.” She tossed it to Jody who caught it clumsily, thinking wearily that at some point they would have to go through Sam’s things, and that there might be more unpleasant surprises in Sam’s things. The thought exhausted her, ground her down and made her stomach churn sick and empty in a way that she was too tired to think about now. 

Back at the motel, they cleaned up and packed in record time, aware the whole time of Sam’s dead body, putrefying in the bed of Jody’s truck as the sun rose higher and higher and the temperature soared. They packed Sam’s things hastily, throwing all of it into one duffle. They were on the road before 7am. 

They drove back in convoy, Claire in the Impala, and Jody in her truck. She called Donna and Alex on the way back to break the news.


	4. Chapter 4

Later that morning, they gave Sam a hunter’s funeral in Bobby’s old yard, among the rusted metal, weeds and burned-out remains of Bobby’s house. The land was still up for sale, and they were technically trespassing. But she was sheriff, no one was going to arrest her. 

Donna and Alex made it in time but no one else did. She supposed that it didn’t matter. Sam wouldn’t care, after all, he’d burned Dean alone, and it wasn’t like they could wait, not with the heat. She’d managed to get a large urn from lockup, something left behind years earlier that no one had claimed. She took Dean’s ashes from the trunk of the Impala and poured them into it. After Sam had burned up and the ashes were cold to the touch, she added Sam’s ashes to his brother’s. 

Claire had claimed the Impala as her own, and as no one else wanted her, Jody guessed Sam would be okay with that. They cleared out the car later that day, laying out all the many incredibly well kept weapons on a tarp in her backyard. 

“Take what you want,” she told Donna, who was sipping a mint julep and running covetous eyes over the gleaming guns. 

“You mean it? ‘Cause I’ve always wanted this baby,” she said. She knelt down and picked up Dean’s favourite pearl-handled Colt. 

“Take it,” Jody said with a shrug. “I think Dean would get a kick out of you having it.” 

“I think he would,” Donna said, grinning, and holstering the Colt. 

She’d found the bunker key in the glove compartment. At some point, they’d have to arrange a trip there. Claire was already itching to go and making noises about moving in and using it as a homebase. Jody dreaded a visit there. She didn’t want to walk through the silent empty rooms and risk running across more Winchester secrets, but she couldn’t keep the bunker locked up forever, and she couldn’t let anyone else rummage through Sam and Dean’s private lives. 

One thing was clear and that was that Sam and Dean’s legacy must be protected. They’d earned that much. Sure, she knew the other side to them, the twisted, fucked-up and downright deviant side to their relationship, but she had to remain the only one. She was tough, she could live with being collateral damage. Claire and Donna and Alex and Garth and everyone else must never know. They might suspect something, but Sam and Dean had to remain untarnished heroes in their eyes. 

She went upstairs for a nap later that day, leaving Donna, Claire and Alex to haggle over the remaining Winchester arsenal. She felt bone-deep exhausted, her head foggy from tiredness and mint juleps. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. 

Of course sleep wouldn't come. It never did when she really wanted it. Eventually she sighed, sat up in bed, and reached to take Sam's wallet out of her nightstand where she’d stashed it earlier. 

He had fifty-six dollars in bills, numerous fake credit cards and IDs and one photograph. She unfolded the photo with trembling hands. It looked recent, taken maybe two or three years ago, she recognised the tile in the bunker kitchen in the background. It was Dean, caught with a look on his face that she’d never seen before. Dean’s face had always been very expressive, angry, exasperated, amused, embarrassed, she’d seen all of that, but this look was different. This look was soft, intimate, _adoring_. It was the face of someone who loved the person taking the picture with every cell in their body. This was how Dean had looked at Sam when no one else was around and when they didn’t have to hide. This was the photo that Sam had kept in his wallet and carried around with him every day. 

She shoved the photo back into the wallet, and dropped it back into her nightstand drawer. She’d figure out later what to do with it. 

After dinner, she and Donna took their second bottle of wine outside. They’d been drinking on and off all day, but neither of them could sleep and it was - sort of - a wake, so yeah. More drinking was definitely in order. 

“What are you going to do with them?” Donna asked, nodding at the urn of shared Winchester ashes that was sitting on the picnic table between them. 

Jody shrugged, pulling on her cigarette. Her throat still stung like hell, and smoking was a really fucking stupid idea, but it was her filthy habit, and when had she ever been smart anyway? It had been a really difficult couple of days. “I don’t know. Maybe scatter them on their mom’s stone. That’s what they did with her ashes.” 

“You knew her, right?” 

“I met her,” Jody said. 

“Must’ve been an interesting lady.” 

Jody tilted her head back and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “An interesting lady for sure. She was…” she hesitated. She hadn’t thought much about Mary Winchester, and was loath to speak ill of the dead, still though, this was Donna. “...Distant, like she wasn’t really there, like this sort of opaque reflection of a person, going through the motions of living. I guess, coming back from the dead like that, years and years later, makes you like that, like you’re living on borrowed time.” 

Donna nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can’t imagine how that must be. And then to find your little babies are two grown men.” 

“I don’t think they ever really connected,” Jody said with a sigh. “Sam and Dean and her. I mean, they loved her and she loved them, I could see that. But they didn’t get each other. She was distant and kinda lost, and they - well - I’m not sure she liked spending time with them. I think they unsettled her.” 

“That must have upset them. Those boys, family was everything to them,” Donna said sadly. 

“Yes, yes it was,” Jody said. She paused and dragged on her cigarette again. Her pulse was drumming in her head and she could feel the words on the tip of her tongue, the urge - the need - to share what she knew - to make it so she wasn’t the only one who knew, to share the burden. But that wasn’t fair on Donna, and she’d promised herself, she would protect their legacy. She would go to her grave keeping their secret. 

“But in the end, I guess all they needed was each other,” Donna said quietly. 

Jody darted a look at her, surprised. Donna was looking back at her, her expression soft and serious. “They lost so many people, even their Mom, and they kept going, but this time--” she trailed off. 

Jody swallowed. She could see Sam’s face in the church, staring up at the splintering ceiling, the way he’d lowered his head and looked right at her. She hadn’t seen it then, too terrified and caught in the moment, but she could see it now, the apology in his eyes, asking for her forgiveness, the words she hadn’t heard: _I’m sorry, Jody._ He could’ve died on any hunt over the last few months, he could’ve died when he was alone, or when it was just him and Claire, but he died on a hunt with her. 

Because he knew that she wouldn’t leave him behind, that she would see his body burned and his spirit released, that she would look after that damn car, his brother’s most beloved possession, that she would open up the bunker to other hunters, letting their legacy and their lives not be wasted. Sam had known she would do all that. 

She finished her cigarette, grinding the butt out on the picnic table. Donna raised her eyebrows at her. “You okay?” 

“Not really. I’m…” She hesitated, what could she say? That she was so fucking angry with Sam Winchester? That she didn’t want the burden that he’d placed on her. That it wasn’t _fair._ Well, suck it up, Jody, life wasn’t fair, and if she’d never met Sam and Dean then she definitely wouldn’t be here right now, smoking and drinking in her backyard with her best friend, simultaneously cursing and missing Sam fucking Winchester like a hole in the gut. 

“God, I’m tired,” she said at last. 

“Yeah,” Donna sighed in agreement. She tilted her head back, staring up into the darkening sky. “I wonder where they are now.” She turned her head, and looked at Jody. “You think they're together?” 

Jody nodded, and smiled at her. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

THE END


End file.
